I balance my wings as wind comes my way strong enough to hold me aloft, and yet perceived movement is slow, if not, stalled.
I pause, heavy and sad. The lids on my eyes struggle to lift. There is grief and disbelief that my brother has passed, and yet, I feel him here. When I’m asked how I am when I’m out and about, I tell some and not others. I give myself time to pause as I decide whether I have the energy to share my grief.
I realize the impulse to share comes through the eyes. I look to see if there is a place to connect, if the eyes I’m meeting lay down a path on which to step, stop, speak.
I’m with Rumi this morning, a 13th century Persian poet. His poem “Birdwings” translated by Coleman Barks speaks to me, though I’m still looking for the “joyful face”. I trust that face is here.
Your grief for what you’ve lost lifts a mirror
up to where you’re bravely working.
Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here’s the joyful face you’ve been wanting to see.
Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.
Your deepest presence
is in every small contracting and expanding,
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated